


Old Paint Under The New

by coricomile



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:40:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27822409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: Sam isn't soft and has never been soft, could take down a full grown man from the tender age of ten, but now it's not just Sam. It's Sam and the little living anomaly inside of him, a gift and a curse, a brand new Winchester that won't know the backseat of the Impala as his only home. It's Dean's entire family in one tall package, fractioned off segments of his heart waddling around so much slower than usual and impossible to hide even under the baggiest of sweaters and jackets.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 20
Kudos: 224
Collections: SPN J2 Xmas Exchange





	Old Paint Under The New

**Author's Note:**

  * For [storyspinner70](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyspinner70/gifts).



> For storyspinner70. I hope you enjoy! It was a new place for me to branch into writing and I thank you for the gift of your prompt!

Sam hasn't left the bunker in over four months and he's crawling up the walls. He's not as restless as Dean, doesn't get twitchy as fast, but he's always liked stretching his legs and some time on the road. The bunker is a nice little prison with lots of toys, but Sam belongs outside in the sun. He's going to snap sooner or later and all Dean can do is hang on. Dean's robbed libraries and subscribed to every streaming platform and even forced himself to hand over multi-thousand piece jigsaw puzzles without making too many geek boy jokes, but there's only so much he can do.

The last puzzle was of a fairy forest, little mushroom houses with red and white polka dots and twinkling lights and all. Sam had made that particularly unamused face at Dean when he'd pulled it out of the shopping bag- the same one he's had all his life, the one that always prods Dean right in the big brother button and makes him lean in a little harder- but he still sat at the war table, hunched over and grabbing tiny pieces with his giant hands and fitting them together with singular focus. When Sam finished it, Dean carefully glued it onto the cut down back of a cardboard box he'd gotten from the grocery store and put it in a frame, muttering the whole time about how he used to be a mighty hunter. It looks like something that belongs in a baby's room, bright colors and all. Maybe, as they reach the last few weeks, Dean can buy out part of a craft store or something and let Sam try his hand at making one of those spinny things that hang over a crib. It'll probably get him a kick in the shin or worse, but Sam's idle hands really are the devil's playthings. Not that Dean will ever, _ever_ say that out loud. 

They need a nursery and, while the Men of Letters had thought of a lot of shit, none of them ever put in anything for a kid. It makes sense. They probably had actual houses to go home to at the end of the night, using the bedrooms as last ditch efforts, but Dean doesn't think he and Sam are going to go find something in the suburbs anytime soon. Free rent can't be beat and Sam's all about raising the kid as legit as they can. When Sam is in a particularly cranky mood, which is more and more often these days, Dean breaks out the tools and takes out his frustration on drywall and insulation and shelving instead of his pregnant brother. It seems more practical. The second the kid is out, though, Sam is getting wrestled down to the ground for being a major brat. 

Every time Sam even suggests leaving, even just on a grocery run, Dean feels sick. He's always been on the too-strong side of protective; walked or drove Sam to school until he was sixteen and big enough to fight back, followed him out on dates and did his best not to get busted. Sam isn't soft and has never been soft, could take down a full grown man from the tender age of ten, but now it's not just Sam. It's Sam and the little living anomaly inside of him, a gift and a curse, a brand new Winchester that won't know the backseat of the Impala as his only home. It's Dean's entire family in one tall package, fractioned off segments of his heart waddling around so much slower than usual and impossible to hide even under the baggiest of sweaters and jackets. 

Dean hovers. He can't even pretend that he's doing anything else. Sam is going to punch him in the face sooner rather than later, but Dean can't help it. Sam has always been his magnetic north, the person he revolved around, and now all the worst parts of Dean's mother henning are ramped up to eleven. He can see it, even when Sam isn't pointing it out- sometimes with an itemized list because he really is bored- but stopping is out of the question. 

"Dean- No. Stop. I don't need-"

"Enjoy it now, Sammy," Dean says, flicking Sam between the eyes and laughing at the scowl he gets in return. 

"You know your thing for my stomach is weird, right?" Sam asks, sighing as Dean spreads his fingers out over the stretched skin, one thumb rubbing against the long, pink line that only showed up a few days ago. 

He can whine as much as he wants, but Dean knows what Sam in discomfort looks like and the pinch of his eyebrows has been around for weeks. If Sam is too proud to ask for belly rubs, just like he was too proud forever ago to ask for leg rubs when he was fourteen and growing faster than his body could handle- well. Dean has never once not known what Sam needs. It's the least he can do with Sam so visibly uncomfortable. 

Sam ran skinny as a kid, more vertical than horizontal, and when he grew up the cut of his hips were sharp enough to slice something in half. Dean has seen him underfed and too thin, has seen him hulked up like a steroid ridden Olympian, has seen him get a little softer all over as he got older, but this- This is his favorite version of Sam by far. 

Sam rolls his eyes and makes faces, but his dimples show more often than they used to whenever Dean lays hands on him. Dean has missed them. He brushes his mouth over the heavy curve where Sam's six pack used to be. He's scared shitless and Sam gets wild eyed sometimes when reality crashes down, but they've got each other and they'll figure it out one way or another. They always do. 

For two months, the only sign Sam showed was the violent morning sickness that had left Dean pacing outside of bathrooms, fist held to his mouth and his own stomach churning with panic. He spent a lot of that time raiding the library for causes- curse or plague or something else nasty. It obviously had to be something nasty, if only for how it left Sam pale and shaking and exhausted. He read until his head hurt, took a shot, and read some more, coming up empty time and time again. 

Sam asked him, two and a half months into the puking and the random rage fits, what exactly Amara had said to him. It had been such an out of left field question that Dean had blurted it out word for word, his stomach sinking as Sam's mouth twisted at the side. He'd held up his hand when Dean tried to follow him out of the bunker, keys clutched to his other palm, and told him to fuck off for an hour. Dean gave him forty-five minutes and called it a compromise.

He'd found Sam in the bathroom, head against the mirror, one hand on his stomach and the other white knuckle tight around the sink. For a long minute, Dean had thought about Lucifer, about all the stuff bouncing around endlessly inside of Sam's head, had thought about bad blood and spirit sickness and hallucinations so real Sam could feel them. Then, without moving his forehead from the cool glass of the mirror, Sam had thrust out a handful of plastic sticks with metal tips and screen windows. Once Dean realized what they were, he'd dropped them and immediately shoved Sam out of the way to wash his hands. 

Not a single one- lines or words or color coding- read negative. Dean had opened his mouth to offer the easy out, same way he would have with anyone else, but shut it just as fast. It had never been a question for either of them, even if they could just go to a doctor. Sam, the forever fucking martyr, would carry this… this _baby_ as far as he could. Dean would slaughter anything that even tried to take it away from him- one part him, one part Sam, one hundred percent _family_ in a way they never expected, could never pretend didn't matter. If Sam had decided to take a pill or cast a spell or gone full-on coat hanger, Dean wouldn't have stopped him, no matter how much his own stomach turned at the thought. Sam didn't bring it up and Dean didn't either. 

Once he stopped throwing his fist into walls and, memorably, Dean's face, Sam spent a lot of time on mommy blogs, researching as hard as he ever did on any case, mouth pursed and forehead wrinkled as he wrote notes by hand with his fancy ink blot pen. Dean had gotten kicked out of bed more than once for not being able to stop himself from laughing. The great Sam fucking Winchester- prophesied boy king of Hell, one of the greatest hunters in the world, terror to every last bump in the night- treating a pregnancy timeline like a college essay, footnotes and all. He couldn't help himself. 

Dean also couldn't help himself from sneaking glances at the notes when Sam was sleeping and making his own. It wasn't his fault he knew how not to get caught. He had the suspicion that Sam knew anyway when Dean tracked down pregnant lady vitamins and disgraced the kitchen with decaf coffee and, worst of all, non-alcoholic beer. He took Baby- and God, every time he even thought that word his chest got tight, terror and joy and full stop fear and pride all tearing everything inside of him apart- down through the backwoods until it was just the two of them and did his freaking out in private, pacing and screaming and swearing at Chuck and Amara and himself in equal turns. 

Sometime around the end of the third month, Dean woke up to find a bulge under his hand, firm and round. The mommy blogs called it popping. Dean hated that he knew that, knew what it meant, but he didn't hate the way it looked, the way it felt. Then, it was just a swell, a gradual curve that swept up from the place where Sam's happy trail started to just under his ribcage, a perfect half circle. It could have been a beer gut if not for the pressure it gave back. Sam had woken up bitchy and in the mood for blackberries and Dean dragged his ass all the way to the actual farmer's market to pay nine bucks for a carton. It had been worth it for the way Sam smiled at him, for the way Sam had sucked the taste off Dean's fingertips and kissed him sweeter than sugar after. 

Sam has never met a growth spurt he didn't take as a personal challenge. When he was thirteen, he spent so many nights with his face against Dean's chest, still baby soft and small, trying to hide the pained crying as his bones and muscles got longer before his skin did. Dean grew from five eight to six one over sixteen long months, but little Sammy went from five two to five eleven in just barely one year, already almost Dean's height and still not all the way done when he went to college. 

His stomach seems to be the same way. It popped and then grew and grew and grew. It's almost like a cartoon. In profile, he looks like he's swallowed down a giant balloon that's still inflating. Over the last couple of months, the perfect roundness has turned a little oblong, heavier at the bottom like even Sam's stupidly strong core can't hold up the weight. Baby Winchester is going to be a big boy, that's for sure. Sam's mostly given up on shirts, which Dean isn't going to complain about any time soon, but he's gotten a little more hunched over, partly the weight dragging him down, partly the self conscious need to hide how big he's gotten. 

It's not fair and Dean's caught Sam staring at himself in the mirror more than once, the corner of his mouth turned down and his body held twisted, examining the change he never asked for, but he's so damn gorgeous that sometimes Dean loses his breath. It's a primal, ugly instinct that Dean can't fight, no matter how hard he tries. Not that he tries too hard. Sammy, his- weird, hero, amazing- brother doing one more thing that shouldn't be possible and looking good doing it. Dean can't help himself. One part him, one part Sam. Most parts Sam if they're lucky. 

When he's having those chick flick moments that seem to come more often as Sam starts to cross the finish line, Dean wonders if this is how Dad felt when Mom was pregnant with them. He shuts that idea down fast every time because he's got a lot of feelings of the warm and fuzzy kind, but his dick is also really into the proof of what they've done, what they're making, and he can't think about his parents like that without wanting to step into traffic. The baby growing in Sam isn't an immaculate birth, but he and Sam sure as hell were as far as Dean is concerned. 

"Fuck. Ow. Be careful down there." Sam swats at Dean's head, lazy and without any strength behind it, and Dean pushes in against the sides of the bump, cradling it in his palms. Baby Winchester is already a fighter, but right now his greatest enemies are Sam's organs and Dean's hands. Dean hopes Baby has his temperament. He doesn't know if he can relive through Sam's bitchiest years all over again. That's still a long way off, but by the way Baby has a knack for kicking Dean square in the spine right as he's falling asleep, he's pretty sure Baby is going to be a stubborn little shit, just like his dad. His mom. His Sam. 

"Stop bitching. You'll feel better when I'm done." Dean grabs the oil that smells like some sort of flower and tends to make him sneeze, dumping a giant puddle right over the weird little jut of Sam's belly button. Sam kicks him in the thigh. Like father, like son Dean thinks a little giddily as Baby kicks too, hard enough that Dean can see his tiny little foot push out through the skin. Sam grunts, arm shooting out to lock his fingers around Dean's wrist and aim him towards the most painful part. 

"Hey, maybe next time God's sister decides to knock one of us up, _you_ can deal with the back pain and the puke and the back alley cesarean section." Sam groans when Dean gets the spot good, his eyes half closing. Dean pushes down on it just a little harder and doesn't bother fighting the smugness when Sam's cock fattens up in his XXXL boxers. 

The hormone thing has sucked for both of them for the most part, but Dean's willing to forgive it. Sam's like a teenager again, hard every time the wind blows just right and demanding in a way that turns Dean's crank perfectly. The mommy blogs had said the horny thing is normal, but Dean hadn't really expected it to be like this. Not that he's complaining, even when Sam wakes him up at three in the morning with glassy eyes and come already on his stomach. 

"Pretty sure I'm the one that knocked you up, but I'd pay for that video," Dean says, grinning up at Sam with his best leer. Sam hits him again. "What? She's hot, you're hot. Bet she would have given you a good time." Sam doesn't bother to grace him with a response. 

Dean brushes his lips over the stretch mark that bisects Sam's stomach and grins when Sam pushes into it. It's not gooey and sentimental if it leads to sex. It's not embarrassingly tender if Sam moans like Dean's already got something in him at each touch of his mouth. The head of Sam's cock peeks through the slit of his boxers, fully hard, and taps against Dean's throat, demanding attention. Dean nudges it aside with his chin, delighted by the sound Sam makes when his stubble scrapes over the soft skin. 

"Suck it or leave me alone," Sam gasps, lifting his hips. His bump bangs against Dean's nose, harder than it looks and smelling so strong of that flower oil that Dean has to rear up and lean off the side of the bed to give into the inevitable sneeze. Sam laughs. "Hot."

"Fuck you," Dean says. Sam's dimples are out, his hair fanned out around his head. If it wouldn't get him a kick to the groin, Dean would say he's glowing. 

"That's what I'm saying, man, you're the one-" His voice cuts off when Dean grabs his cock, slapping the head against the bump. Payback. "Dean. Come on."

"You said you didn't need this," Dean says, ignoring Sam's cock as best he can. It's not an easy task, but he's been riling Sam up for decades and it's one of his favorite pastimes. "I wouldn't want to-"

"I have ninety pounds on you right now and I'm not afraid to use them," Sam says, kneecap lodged right into Dean's chest. Dean laughs and gives in, leaning into the press of Sam's knee to suck a kiss under the ridge of Sam's cockhead. 

"No need to get violent, Sammy," he says, drags his lips down the full length of Sam's cock. 

Sam really is like a teenager again, quick to get it up and quick to get off. Dean keeps one hand on Sam's stomach, the thumb of the other hooked around Sam's cock to hold it up and away. He pulls off quick tricks, uses all that knowledge he's been storing up, and knows better than to laugh when Sam comes in all of five minutes. He tastes sweeter since he got knocked up, thinner, but Dean still lets the come drip down onto the low curve where Sam can feel it but can't see it. He's got to enjoy this now, too, and there's something about the sight of it that makes Dean's stomach clench. 

He ignores his own hardon and climbs up the bed, half shoving to get Sam onto his side. Sam makes a half-assed grab at Dean's crotch, but he's loose limbed and drooping, finally tension free and Dean's sure his services will be demanded again soon enough. He tucks himself in behind Sam, one arm under the pillow and one over Sam's waist, his nose tucked against Sam's neck. He blames the hormones for all the warmth running through him. This is his favorite place in the world, wrapped up like this. 

"How do you feel about naming him Isaac?" Sam asks, voice still rough. 

"I think we should ask the kid," he says. He kisses the stubble at the edge of Sam's jaw, sucks a spot to purple right at that favorite spot. Dean fits the web between his thumb and first finger around the edge of Sam's bump and holds still under Sam's weird new outie. "Two kicks for Isaac, one for Zep."

Isaac kicks twice.

**Author's Note:**

> Flail with me on [Tumblr](coricomile.tumblr.com)


End file.
